Filling in (My own expansion on a CatBountry fic)
by TheSoundOfAWESOME
Summary: What the title means is there is a massive timegap in a fic by CatBountry, and it bothers me. The link is in the first chapter in case you don't know what's going on. I don't really know where it's going atm, and I may have the guts to write my very first smut. Anyways, if I have inspired intrigue and mystery in your soul then, by all means, read on.
1. Chapter 1

_**So I read "In the Cold Russian Winter" by CatBountry, who is one of my favourite people right now. It was amazing, but I couldn't help but notice there was a very abrupt jump of 24 years, from the remote Russian forest to 2Fort. And I was like "Hey, it would be interesting to see their first reactions to seeing eachother after so long and blah" because I think my thoughts a lot more interesting than they are in reality.**_

_**Link to the inspiring fic: /?p=2101**____**Read that first if you want a better experience. I'll still try and keep it clear to lazy people without sounding like I'm just narrating the whole thing but bear with me if I fail.**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN TF2 BLAH BLAH BLAH**_

They'd all arrived at the station differently.

Pyro had been sitting patiently on a bench, reading an upside down newspaper and laughing heartily at the Sudoku puzzles and crosswords. It seemed friendly enough, jumping up and down, clapping it's hands every time there was a new arrival, often taking their hands in its own and hopping around in circles with them, or simply engulfing them in a bone-crushing hug.

Scout, Soldier and Engineer had all arrived on a coach, and were already well acquainted with eachother by the time they'd arrived. Engineer seemed to be making the most effort to get to know everybody, shaking everyone's hand and offering them a big, toothy grin, charming them instantly with his easy, Southern drawl. Soldier stood at attention and saluted each new team member, learning their class-types by the badges on their arms, but made no further effort to be particularly amiable. Scout just seemed a little nervous; he had probably already guessed that everyone else here would be at least ten years his senior, and he'd have little in common with them. The fact he was a Bostonian who sounded more like he was from Brooklyn didn't really help matters. He seemed to take a shine to the Sniper, though. This was probably because he had at first thought he was British, and got all excited because he'd only ever seen Brits on TV and treated the idea of meeting a living, breathing one with similar curiosity to Demo's obsession with the Loch Ness Monster. When he was corrected, though, his enthusiasm didn't waiver in the slightest.

Speaking of Sniper, he and Demo had both come by sea, but obviously not on the same boat. In fact, Demo had only just arrived and was currently in the process of introducing himself. The former of the two generally kept to himself, tipping his hat to new arrivals and only speaking when spoken to, with minimal, one or two-word answers. It was clear he wasn't a people person. It was impossible to differentiate whether his job had made him like that, or if he took the job because he was like that in the first place. Demo, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. He was extremely friendly, and had obviously learned not to take offense easily. This was evident in the genuine, warm belly-laugh that erupted from his already wide grin as he saw the looks of utter confusion on everyone's faces when he first opened his mouth and they heard the Scottish vowels and R's punctuating his speech. He told them not to worry about upsetting him; most people just assumed he was from South Africa. The general impression of him seemed to be that he was a good man, a good laugh and hopefully a good mercenary.

Heavy had mostly walked. He could tell what everyone's first impression of him was. It was the same every time, no matter who he met. He often felt like a big, bald Gulliver, washed up on the beach of the Little People. The Pyro had visibly jolted when it first saw him approaching, apparently soothed moments later by the fact he was wearing Red. He pretended not to notice the wary glances everyone flashed him at least once, save for Scout, who couldn't seem to stop staring at his monstrously large form for about five minutes. He felt very much in the same boat as Demo; He had learned over the years how people reacted to his visage, as Demo had learned to predict how people reacted to his accent. This helped him to brace himself for the inevitable 60-second awkwardness he would never be able to escape, and harden himself to it. To counteract this he focused on coming off as something of a gentle giant, which seemed to do the trick, especially with this team. They were a haphazard band of freaks and social rejects, and they knew it. Why else would they have been employed by RED?

Their Spy and Medic should be arriving shortly. They were on the same plane, from Belgium, if the boys had been informed correctly. Apparently they were French and German respectively. Heavy had no problem with the French, although if he were to get along with his teammate he knew he had to dispel of the stereotypes in his head of the suave, chain-smoking lady-killer that all Frenchmen seemed to be portrayed as in movies. The Spy would probably be nothing like that. He'd probably throw his head back and laugh at the image, to be honest.

Heavy was unsure how he felt about the team's Medic. Of course, the mention of Germany tended to make a good chunk of the team subconsciously bristle, himself included. It was only to be expected, afterall. However, Engineer had pointed out that he was probably not a Nazi, or at least not a particularly committed one, else he wouldn't have taken up the job. Reassurances aside, something spooked Heavy that nobody else could possibly know; the strange coincidence of their Medic's nationality. Twenty four years ago, during the war, when he was just twelve years old, he'd stumbled upon a German field Medic out in the cold, on his own. He was a young man, it seemed. He looked to be in his mid-twenties. Unable to believe his luck, he'd held the man at gunpoint and led him back to his home, where his older sister, Natascha, lay sick with Diphtheria. He "persuaded" him (albeit rather aggressively, but it was persuasion nonetheless) to heal her, but had decided to still keep him in the house for the night. Heavy remembered how, that evening, he'd sat down opposite the strange man, at first just to observe a foreigner, but before he knew it they were talking. Who said what, he couldn't remember. He just remembered that this man had told him that he did not believe in the Reich, and that he had just wanted to get away from it all. It turned out they were not so different, and at that moment Heavy remembered feeling a great pity for him. He had brought him out the next morning, to the spot where he'd found him, and fired a single shot into the air in feigned execution. He had always hoped that man would make it out of the war alive, and leave Germany behind. He often imagined him stepping off a train at a station - much like this one, in fact – suitcase in hand, beaming at the prospect of starting anew, as he drank in his new surroundings and new air and new life and new hope. The harsh reality was that he had probably ended up face down in the snow on his trip back to the German base. If the cold hadn't got to him, Russian snipers or patrols would have.

Still, much like with the Frenchman, he resolved to wipe all memories of prior experience clean from his mind. Heavies and Medics were expected to work as a team, which meant they'd probably spend a lot of time together on the battlefield and off it.

He was rudely jerked from his thoughts as Pyro practically exploded at the arrival of the last train, taking Scout and Demo by the hand and running alongside it like an overexcited little dog.

The first character to step out into the New Mexican sun was a dark, willowy figure in a balaclava and dusky-red three piece suit. He surveyed his new landscape with a cool serenity and seemed to smirk to himself. He stuck a hand in his pocket and strolled over to the team, a precise nod of the head signalling that he was indeed with them. Pyro hurried up to him and shook both his hands violently, jogging an almost-spent cigarette from his mouth. He eventually managed to salvage his hand, now miserable and limp from the blood being sent awol by the Pyro's 'unique' hospitality, quickly regained his composure and cleared his throat.

"You all know 'oo I am, I'm sure. Pleazure to meet you all at last." He seemed very sure of himself. Not quite self-satisfied enough to be completely dislikeable, but this would probably prove to be a grating quality as time pressed on. It was actually rather notable that there was something at least a little irritating about everyone. These men were only human, afterall. The group descended back into the depths of not-quite-fluid conversation and the Spy went about acquainting himself with everyone. Heavy went through the introductory motions for the seventh time that day. As the Spy moved on to Demo, Heavy remembered the Medic had yet to emerge from the train. He looked back over to the heaving vessel, and saw a bespectacled man in a long white coat slowly making his way down the steps from the carriage, heaving with him a behemoth cage full of countless little white doves. He cursed quite profusely in his native tongue as he stepped on his ankle wrong and nearly twisted it, almost dropping his pets. He looked somewhat aged, well into his forties. From here, Heavy could make out that he had very strong features – Roman nose, well defined cheekbones and a long, solid jaw… he also noticed a delicate little curl deviating from the rest of his receding, dark hair and onto his forehead. By this time the others had noticed the newest and final addition to their strange little party and were just sort of standing there, save for Pyro, whose actions by now required no further description. Spy's nose wrinkled as he obviously understood what the German man was saying;

"Really, Docteur. You are a man of intellect; profanity iz ze crutch of ze inarticulate fellow."

He earned himself a confused glance from various teammates, Heavy included.

"I vill go and help Doktor. I can carry little cage, no problems."

"Ah! Danke, mein kamerad!" He patted the pyro on the back and sent him on his way back to the group "You ah ze Heavy Veapons Specialist, if I am not mistaken?" The Medic obviously had better hearing than anyone had given him credit for.

"Da," Heavy took the cage with all the care he could take "Is good you arrive, we are full team now! Why do you have all dese leetle birdies? Not practical on battlefield."

In the split moment the Doctor looked up at him, Heavy knew. Now that they were walking side by side, chatting casually, he knew. There was no doubt in his mind. Sure, he was a little harder to recognise; his voice was huskier, his hair was thinner, and it had been so long since that night and he'd been so young that Heavy was sure the amount of times he'd replayed it in his head since then had probably warped and distorted and blurred the memory of that face into oblivion. But at this proximity, in perfect light and a distraction-free atmosphere, the Heavy Weapons Specialist just _knew_...

It was him.

"Oh, I know…and I should get vid of zhem, I know zhey'd be so much better off away from here, but I just couldn't bring myself to part viz zhem. Zhey are my little guardian angels." He smiled at them fondly, and petted one through the brass bars with a rubber - gloved finger. Noticing Heavy's confused expression, he went on "Vell, zhey don't actifely go and help me in battle or anyzhing, but I believe every man schould have his own good-luck charm. Just to help vhiz personal morale, and vhat-not."

Heavy had gone quiet, the puzzlement engraved even deeper into his face. Medic just assumed it was because his English was not spectacular and he was probably just processing what had just been said. Despite this sudden loss of cognition, Medic found this man appealing (in more ways than one - he'd always had a certain 'thing' for big, burly shaved-bears, but would certainly not let that obstruct professionalism). He seemed like a good natured fellow, just trying to get along with everybody. He too was aware of the symbiotic relationship Heavies and Medics shared in action, and looked forward to spending more time with him. His thick, Russian accent reminded him a little of the child he met in 1945. Medic had thought about that child often after the war; about his sister and how he hoped she'd got better, about the little remote village he lived in, about whether that boy was ever able to leave Russia. He'd never know – If the boy had survived (which was likely since the war ended the year they'd met) he probably wouldn't recognise him if he passed him in the street. By this time they'd reached the rest of the group, and Medic did his best to reassure everyone that he was not a Fascist, nor was he going to cut anyone up and experiment on them. The team seemed rather accepting of him after that, and introductions flew back and forth as if everyone were afraid they couldn't make an impression that would last long enough. Heavy, having already spoken to the Doctor, stayed silent and pensive. Whatever he was smiling about, Medic mused, it was no longer his own poor justification for bringing pets into a conflict like the one they were headed for. They were all odd characters, yes, but so was Medic.

He rather liked this team.


	2. Chapter 2

_**OK so my link to the original fic didn't work, but it's honestly not THAT hard to just look up "CatBountry, cold Russian winter".**_

_**DISCLAIMER: IF I OWNED TF2 DO YOU REALLY THINK THIS WOULD BE FANFICTION AND NOT CANON?**_

The journey to 2fort had been a fairly long one. Not that anyone minded – they still barely knew eachother and had so much to talk about. Scout was yammering on animatedly about his seven brothers and how they all reminded him a little of these guys, which was cool because it would be more like back home. Engineer, Pyro and Soldier seemed interested in what he was saying, but there were plenty of other conversations going on aswell. Sniper had tucked himself neatly in the two back seats of the coach, hat over his eyes. Demo had remained somewhat apprehensive of Medic after everyone else had dismissed their suspicions. The hair on the back of his neck seemed to flatten, however, when it became apparent the Doctor was far more interested in how he lost his left eye than the colour of his skin. Medic himself kept stealing glances at Heavy between sentences, who was talking to Spy in French. He seemed a lot more fluent in that language than in English. Did he know other languages? Maybe he knew German? He realised Demo hadn't said anything for a while and looked over to find him asleep, face pressed against the window. Medic watched for a little while as his breath fogged up the glass and faded again, only to be fogged up once more by his increasingly deep respirations as he slumbered deeper and deeper. The Doctor couldn't complain – he was content whether he was being spoken to or not. Seeing as how the current case was "not", he sat back and thought about where his Doves might live once they arrived.

Of course, he didn't dwell on this for long. He thought about the protocol examinations he'd have to perform on everyone once they arrived, and how he could remain calm while he was examining the resident giant. He had been so terrified under Nazi rule that the slightest exression of interest in another man would have him thrown in a camp that he instead moulded himself into a metaphorical eunuch, not daring to interact with anyone on anything more than a social level. To his utmost shame, the result of this was that he had reached 48 years of age and still had yet to experience the pleasures of the flesh. But now – now that he was past the Reich, now that he was far from civilization – might he be able to allow himself to…give in? Medic tried not to shudder – out of dread or relief, he didn't know – and glanced over at the Heavy and back. Agh, one look wasn't enough! He turned his head back again and surveyed his new kamerad's rippling muscles, his impressive stature, his soft belly, his defined features and strong jaw…the sheer improbability of his presence sent a shiver down the physician's spine, and this time he knew it's trigger. If anything did happen, anything at all, please let it be with this biological wonder of science.

The team stepped out of the coach, one by one, and looked up at the lofty, redwood structure they'd be calling home. There was a small cluster of smaller buildings leading towards what they were informed would be the part of the base accessible for combat. Upon further exploration they discovered it was more like a fortress than a base; the Spy had advised they familiarise themselves with the various signs and maps up around the walls so that they could navigate the twisting corridors and byways without a second thought (And with any luck, the BLU base would have a similar geographic layout, despite it's vastly differing architecture). Everyone went their separate ways, each class finding the quickest route to the spots they'd be most useful. For some classes, like Sniper or Engineer this would generally be one or two places and vantage points, and for others like Spy and Scout they'd need to know shortcuts and passages all over the map. Pyro was left standing on its' lonesome, twiddling its' fingers and feverishly turning its' head from sign to sign, small, panicked sounding peeps escaping through the filter of its' mask.

Soldier was returning from his errand for Engineer, bringing some gear and blueprints into the Intelligence room, when he heard these signals of distress. What was the creature making them? Could it be a wild animal, maybe a small, unassuming robot animal BLU to spy on them? Anything was possible on a battlefield. At this thought he hugged the wall, bolt upright, as he thought out a reasonable plan of attack. He didn't know what angle the animal was facing, so he couldn't risk peering around the corner in case it spotted him. It sounded rather small and harmless – but if it was a robot it could have GIANT ROCKETS ATTATCHED TO IT'S KNEES OR SOMETHING! Soldier apologised to Shovel and equipped his rocket launcher. This cretin would stand no chance…

"AHAH! DON'T YOU MOVE AN IN—Oh. Pyro." At the sight of his startled little teammate Soldier lowered his weapon and stood up straight. "Um, I offer my most humble apologies for any cause of distress on my part."

"Huddahmmphuahham."

"You know, you'll have to take off that mask of yours sooner or later, if you want anyone to understand a word you're saying, Private. That is highly unorthodox and impractical uniform."

Pyro shifted its' weight from one foot to another and wrung its' hands. Soldier could see he'd have to adopt a friendlier tone if he wanted to help his comrade.

"Hey, what's got you down, Private?"

Pyro looked up at him and stayed that way for just a fraction of a second too long. It then jumped into motion and gestured wildly at the signs all around the corridors, shaking its' head and shrugging its' shoulders.

"Don't you…You don't understand the signs! That's it!"

"Huddah!" Pyro nodded enthusiastically.

"Private, can't you read?"

Pyro crossed its' hands behind its' back and looked down, its' boots pointing inward.

"Hey, that's OK. I'm not much of a reader myself, but I can get around. Maybe I can teach you? The you won't need help anymore! Improving on your comrades' efficiency is the first step to an unstoppable team."

Pyro jumped up and down and clapped its' hands in glee.

""Excellent! Let's start with…erm…" He looked around for an easy one, "THERE! 'FRONT LINE' – F,R,O,N,T spells front. These are all upper case letters though, let me show you how that word looks in lower case…" The two went off into resupply in search of paper and a pen. Pyro took Soldier's hand in the same way a small child would hold hands with their Daddy and skipped along beside him, whistling the tune of 'Do you believe in magic?'

Scout almost immediately climbed up onto the bridge roof and took running jumps onto the second floor of the RED base, much to the annoyance of the Sniper, who was trying to practise quickscoping to any doorway or entrance point he could see – since they'd met the youngster seemed to be on his own little mission to try and get him to say a sentence longer than five words, which was his current record. Now every time he zoomed in on something it was only a few seconds before a stray Bostonian appendage started flailing about in his vision as the Scout made yet another successful flight from roof to ledge.

"Oi." 1 word.

"What, man? There ain't nowhere else I can get a hang o' this, so ya betta put up with it, already! I mean, seriously! This ain't YOUR map, y'know. Ya can't jus' start hoggin' it wheneva ya feel like!"

"S'not a map." 4 and a half words.

"Well, what is it then, chucklenuts?!"

"…I 'unno. Not a map though." 6 words, but not in the same sentence. So close.

"You ain't much of a talker, are ya?"

Scout earned himself a languid shrug as confirmation. "Depends."

"On wut?"

"Interesting conversation's another story." Long words, but still only 4 nonetheless. Darn.

"Oh, so you're sayin' I'm borin' ya now, are ya? You're fuckin' rude, man. You don't even fuckin' know me!"

"Dun'ave to."

"Well, why the fuck not, man? We're gonna be livin' together, eatin' together, fightin' together…Hell, even fuckin' _showerin_' together! We'll all end up relyin' on eachother one way or another, so ya betta get used to other people now, while ya still got a clean fuckin' slate!"

If it weren't for his grating accent and need to punctuate every other sentence with obscenities, he that little speech probably would've even impressed Soldier. Scout had been unconsciously jogging up and down for the duration of the verbal tennis match, his dogtags duplicating his motions and making little chink-chink sounds. Without warning, Sniper leaned back on his left leg and held up the rifle in his fully-extended right arm in one swift movement. Before Scout could react he heard a crack loud enough to leave a faint ringing in his ears, and felt a slight tug on his neck which disappeared as soon as it came, followed by a small 'plop' in the water behind him. He grabbed his chest out of reflex, only to find that - to his horror – His brother's dogtags were gone.

"You listen here, boy - I used to track some proppa dangerous game in the Aussie outback, kid. I used to spend months on end by meself. If I got hurt or sick, I had to fucking suck it up an' sort it out on me own, coz there wos no bloody one to do it for me. And all that prolonged isolation and adrenaline rush and life-or-death, fight-or-flight living an' wot'ave you taught me a bloody valuable lesson, too: You don't _have_ to rely on other people if you. Never. MISS." _There, _Sniper glared at the roof's current occupant, _You got a bloody reaction outta me, now fuckin' leave me in peace._

"YOU FUCKING CUNT! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU FOR THAT!" Blinking away the threat of tears, Scout dove straight into the water, fully clothed, headset, satchel and all. The second he hit the water he started splashing and flailing about frantically in an attempt to recover his tags. He couldn't care less about the fact Sniper had finally responded like an actual human being, with actual sentences; How _dare_ that bushie-bastard mess with those dogtags! He didn't fucking know where they came from or who they'd belonged to! For all he knew, they could've been family heirlooms or something. And that wasn't far off.

Scout had been born in 1946, the year after the war ended. His eldest brother, David, had given his life for Peace and Liberty. Scout had never met him, but on the morning of his 15th birthday his ma had presented him with a box of letters and photographs David had sent the family. The young boy had been filled with pride to learn that his brother had been a fighter pilot, pictured sitting on the bonnet of an F4U-Corsair, grinning for all he was worth. Scout couldn't remember how many times he'd read over every letter, studying every photograph in minute detail, and before long he felt like he'd known David all his life and he was still in the room with him, looking over his shoulder with a soft smile and a gentle hand on his youngest sibling's back. He remembered the shot of energy that ran down his spine when he first glimpsed the dogtags, and putting them on was another kettle of fish altogether - it made him feel ten feet tall, like he could do anything. Like his dead brother's spirit was holding him just above the ground wherever he went. Subsequently, he never took them off. Not ever, not to sleep, not to shower, never.

And now they were gone, just like that.  
_**-**_Sniper didn't even bother to watch that annoying brat jump in. He'd just lap up the attention like a hungry dog, most likely. He lifted his rifle up over his shoulder and made his way over to a place called "Respawn/Resupply" Where – apparently - they'd be magically teleported after the grievous misfortune of their deaths, with no injuries or trauma to speak of. When he'd first heard about this he'd scoffed and figured this was just some stupid ploy to lull them into some false sense of security. Nobody could cheat death, no matter how rich or powerful these ponsey tossers seemed to think they were. He was jerked from his thoughts as he rounded a corner only to be met with a very stern looking Spy, who was leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, as if he were expecting him. This was only confirmed when Sniper noticed the three cigarette butts clustered around his designer shoes.

"I waz watching zhat, you know. Every second. While - I assure you - I find your marksman skillz to be razher extraordinary, I feel your time viz only your right hand for company 'az left you somewhat socially inept. Did you not see zhat boy'z face when you destroyed 'iz plaques d'identité?"

"'Is wot?"

"Back to our minimal sentencez, are we? Did zhat dramatic monologue wear you out? I waz talking about 'iz _dogtagz_, Monsieur."

"Why'djou care?" _**(There's a line here I couldn't get rid of, just imagine it isn't there. Sorry guys)**_

"Because you 'ave wronged 'im. Gravely. If you understood what I am talking about, you wouldn't 'ave done what you did in zhe first place, but I can see you are in great need of some little factz."

"Piss off wiv yer facts."

"Non. While _you_ were sleeping at ze back of zat coach ze entire journey, ze _rest_ of us were making an effort to get to know eachozher, myself especially. Why? Becauze whatever you tell yourself, you _will_ be relying on zhese men to look out for you, az zhey will expect you to look out for zhem."

"I've 'eard enuff o' this already."

"Au contraire."

"So what 'facts'?"

"Of course, I waz getting off subject, wazn't I?" A ring of smoke followed a leisurely path from Spy's face to Sniper's. He tried not to blink. "Out of interest, I asked him about zhose tagz of 'iz and 'e told me zhey had belonged to 'iz dead brozher."

Sniper visibly deflated. His shoulders sagged and his gaze shifted uncomfortably from side to side behind his aviators. He couldn't say anything.

"'E 'ad never met 'im, but 'e told me 'ow 'iz mozher 'ad given 'im a box on 'iz 15th birthday, full of all zhe letterz and photographz zhat young man 'ad sent to 'iz famiille while 'e waz fighting in zhe war. 'E clearly 'olds 'iz brozher close to 'iz 'eart. Il dit, which 'e iz wearing zhose dogtagz…'e feels az zhough 'iz brozher iz carrying 'im just above zhe ground, and 'e feels ten feet tall. Like 'e can do anyzhing. Anyway, I shan't bore you anymore wiz sentimental little detailz, no, you don't care for zhose; zhe plane 'ad been shot down by zhe gull-wings, apparently. 'E even won some medals."

Spy cloaked. In the silence of the corridor, Sniper could hear the slightest hint of the masked man's soft soles before he parted earshot. He felt rooted to the spot; he still couldn't say anything. He looked back out towards the front line – There was no sign of Scout, but he could hear him splashing about and coming up for air every so often. The young man's relentlessness, his desperation to find his lost treasure, made it even worse.

_You're an awful, awful person, _were the only words echoing through his mind.

Scout looked up briefly to see no sign of any tall, lanky men in the aviator glasses. Good. He didn't want anyone here. He didn't want to see or hear talk to anyone until his prized possessions were recovered. Losing them would be like losing his brother, like losing a part of himself! They bestowed a kind of confidence and strength upon him that nothing else could, he felt naked and vulnerable without them. He couldn't lose them. It just wasn't a possibility.

An hour passed before he saw a small glinting on the reservoir floor. He dived down as soon as he saw it and pounced like a soggy, red cat. His fingers were shrivelled and his eyes stung, he smelled of something he'd rather not place, the contents of his satchel (spare batteries, trainer spikes, laces, ammo, his handgun, etc.) were waterlogged to oblivion, his headset (which was designed to be somewhat waterproof) was positively destroyed by the prolonged marine conditions and he'd almost definitely need a new uniform, but he'd found them! He'd found his precious tags, he and his brother were together again and they'd never part from eachother, never, never, _never_! He tried to hold off his delirious euphoria but he just couldn't help the sudden rush of serotonin flowing through his veins. It felt like his brother's spirit had come home, and was filling his blood with all the rage and bravery he'd fought with in life!

He hurriedly climbed the wooden scaffolding and hoisted himself back up onto the bridge, falling a few times out of exhaustion (bearing in mind he's been keeping himself stationary in deep water for about an hour), but he made it in the end. The sudden shift from water to dry land made the sheer effort to pull his suddenly heavy body over the barrier and onto the warm, dry wood astounding. All he could do for god knows how long was kneel, leaning against the barrier, and gasp for air. It was all worth it, though. He'd got David back, and that was all that mattered.

He opened his palm to fins a twisted, rusting piece of metal with a giant bullet hole in it, framed witch an ugly, glaring burn mark all around the rim. He couldn't make out a thing.

When Scout came back in, he insisted his face was all blotchy because he'd taken a long swim, and nothing more. Spy gave him a sympathetic look.

His eyes only just caught Sniper's back leaving the room.


	3. Chapter 3

_**OH GOD there were so many typos in that last chapter **____** I'll try and do better in this one, guys.  
Also lines don't show up apparently SO YOU CAN JUST GO RIGHT AHEAD AND IGNORE THAT LITTLE AUTHOR'S NOTE BANG IN THE MIDDLE OF A CHAPTER OK LUV **___

_**DISCLAIMER: WHY DO I HAVE TO DO A DISCLAIMER**_

The mercs awoke the next day to the sight of 8 large wooden crates with an individual class symbol stamped on each one. When they asked Pyro where its' own crate was, it just twirled around in a circle for a little while and gave everybody a good morning hug. It then proceeded to hug each of the crates, even Medic's which was by far the largest. For the first time since his arrival, Sniper displayed some genuine excitement at the first sight of "ME VAN!" and jogged happily down the hill to his beloved home. If you listened, you'd probably have heard Scout mutter quite darkly something about "Fuckin' creep lives in a fuckin' van…bet he fuckin' stashes bodies in it an' stuff…fuckin' no-good piece a'," As he pushed his medium-sized crate in the direction of the base. Soldier didn't have the good sense to open his crate _after _taking it to his quarters, the contents of which was just cans and cans of soup. No sooner did Engineer locate his crate than he set about attatching a neat little pulley system that allowed him to tow it all the way up the hill to his workshop by turning some sort of lever that was up there. Everybody else was fairly unremarkable in their endeavours.

Despite his best efforts, Medic simply couldn't carry his crate on his own; because of its' sheer size, it had all come on a small set of wheels which he interpreted by now as somebody's idea of a joke, seeing as how they simply refused to turn no matter how hard he pushed or pulled. In defeat, he climbed up and sat on the top of the crate, his legs dangling over the edge. Heavy's be able to pull it, he was sure. As his heels drummed the side of his new throne, he delved deeper into this hypothesis. What was the most weight Heavy could move, he wondered? What if this crate was nothing to him, like he was moving an empty cardboard box? He visualized the giant Slavic man's muscles glistening with sweat, his shirt clinging to him in the Mexican sun, telling him it was 'No problem, Doktor," and moving the crate - with Medic himself still on top, even – with the greatest of ease, chatting to him as if they were strolling along side by side on a summer's day.

Oh, he'd love to do that with him. His command of French had given Medic ideas that he might be quite the intellectual, dispite his poor English – Oh, if he was it'd be _perfect_. They'd have all sorts of debates and discussions, maybe some even quite heated, and what those might spiral into, he shouldn't even think! The two of them, both angry, both raging, both clearly convinced their own side was the truth, and that the other was in the wrong. Then suddenly one of them would say something that was so hurtful and passionate in the heat of the moment that they'd both just stop and stare at eachother in silence, both daring the other to make the first move, and it would always be himself who gave it, who wrapped his arms around those broad shoulders, kissed his lips and drank in his scent like nectar—

Oh. Gott.

All he could do was pray he remained alone out there, at least for the next few minutes - legs tightly crossed, eyes squeezed shut, until his abdominal muscles ceased their frantic spasms.

"So, you see this one?"

"Huhh."

"This one is a lower case 'a'. And this one is an upper case 'A'."

"Huddah" The student gave the lower case letter a thumbs down, and the upper case letter a thumbs up.

"Good!"

Soldier and Pyro were sitting cross-legged on the War Room floor. Beside Soldier were a pile of lower case letters, a pile of upper case letters, numbers and punctuation symbols. Soldier wouldn't use that last two just yet.

"OK, your upper case 'A' would be used at the start of a sentence. And a sentence is like this:" He god up and wrote on a blackboard that Pyro had inexplicably managed to provide the words;

'I am Soldier, and I am on RED Team.'

"Now, I've underlined all the upper case letters, and I'm going to go through them one by one to show you how they're used. The first one, 'I', is used when you're talking about yourself. 'I got my crate today.' Y'see?" Pyro nodded enthusiastically. "But the tricky thing you'll notice with 'I' is that if you're using it in that way, it absolutely positively _has_ to be upper case. Now, I don't know or care why, but if you're writing a letter or something and you refer to yourself without capitalizing, well. You're, uh…that's…not a very serious letter, is what it is."

Pyro nodded and made a sort of "Uhaah" sound, as if this were a previous mystery that Soldier had shed some light on for the first time. Maybe it was.

"Yes! But you see, the next upper case is used on a special type of word called a noun. Spelt N,O,W,N. And it's basically a word that is a name for something, like Shovel or Pansy or America. That's why the word Soldier is capitalized in this sentence, because it is my name. Well, it's not my _real_ name, but that of course is highly classified information, and I will never reveal it as long as I'm under this contract!"

Elsewhere in the RED base, two colleagues were having a slightly less amiable chat.

"Of all zhe low, cowardly, insensitive people! You 'aven't even _apologized _to 'im!"

"Stop it! I will, OK?"

"Alright, when?"

"Fuck sake."

"This izn't going away, you know. I 'ave all zhe time in zhe world."

"Why'd'jou care?"

"Depends what you zhink I care about."

"'Bout 'im?"

"Ah, mon ami, _zhat_ is where you are wrong. Efficient teamwork requirez zhat we get along, no? Zhey 'ave given uz a week to accustom ourselvez to zhis lifestyle and eachozher, and if on zhe first day we are 'aving little conflictz already?" He shook his head and made condescending tutting noises "I though RED only hired zhe best. You claim to be 'professional', yet I see no professionalism 'ere. I assure you, Zhat boy will only become more bitter wizh every day zhat passez and you don't speak up. Trust me on zhis, you'll both feel better."

There was a pause. Sniper finally shrugged his shoulders and turned to leave."'Aight, you win. I'll talk to 'im." Spy was about to cloak when something seemed to cross the Bushman's mind and he turned around suddenly, "I get me brains bashed in, right? S'your fault."

The Spy smiled. It was the least he could offer him. "But of course."

The physicals. Medic had been both dreading and anticipating them. The second day was probably the latest he could put them off anyway, any later would seem decidedly odd. It had all gone fairly smoothly so far – Scout had jumped and giggled uncontrollably every time something cold touched his bare skin, which became more irritating than cute after a while. It wasn't all _that_ cute to begin with, to be honest. Engineer was fine and dandy – apart from being slightly overweight for his height (it was a shame, Medic thought. Afterall, a few inches taller and he'd probably be quite lean), which he took surprisingly well. Pyro was an impossible case. Medic had spent the best part of twenty minutes chasing it around his infirmary, and when he finally managed to get it to sit down and let him check its' heartbeat (through the suit, of course – he didn't want to find out how it'd react to anyone trying to undress it) it was constantly looking around and pointing at things with an inquisitive noise and a cock of the head, to which he was happy to oblige with his vast biological knowledge, but then it insisted on sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor and spelling words with a bunch of lower-case alphabet cards it had found, then looking up towards him for approval.

This went on for about half an hour before Soldier appeared.

"Well done, Private! I can see your spelling is coming along nicely!"

"…You are…teaching it?"

"Yes. I've taken on the role of its' official educational tutor!"

"How…very considerate of you, Herr Soldier, but vould you mind asking it to pvactise somewhere else? It von't listen to me."

"It's perfectly alright, Private. You can listen to Medic, he has to work here. Not least on _my_ physical!" Pyro picked up its' cards, hugged Medic tightly and skipped out of the room.

The rest of the physical went smoothly – apart from a penchant for a fat cigar every now and again Soldier was obviously in tip-top condition.

Demo was much the same, although his vice was drinking. Medic took much pleasure in shining a light inside his exposed eye socket, exploring nooks and crannies inside a live human skull he'd never had access to before, and might never again. Sniper was next, who had no abnormalities to speak of and then Spy, who was chastised greatly for his chain-smoking.

Then was Heavy. Medic knew he couldn't put him off forever, he'd better just make it quick and try not to look at him too much. However, that proved extremely difficult.

"Herr Heavy? I believe you are next, ja?"

"I am only patient left, Doktor."

"Oh, of course! Excuse me," He mentally slapped himself multiple times.

"Now, I'll just find your medical file, zhen I believe ve can begin."

Medic had to double-take the sight that greeted him on his return. He had to swallow and force his eyes not to widen. Without prompt, Heavy had stripped right down to his boxers.

"Ah, I see you are…prepared for your examination."

"Da." There was an awkward apuse.

"Vell zhen!" Medic pushed his spectacles back up "Let us begin."

Gott, he felt like he was in some sort of dream-state as he ran through the motions of the physical. The Heavy was so much ore imposing up close, so much more impressive, and his natural musk was just so…_male_. Just something about him, you couldn't deny the steady flow of testosterone pumping through his powerful heart.

And my, what a heart that was, too. Medic could hear in thumping away, sure, steady, stronger than any he'd heard before. His lung capacity was incredible, his eyesight and hearing perfectly clear, his skin was thick and toned and riddled with scars. Medic wanted to trace them with his tongue, he wanted to kiss up and down each and every one, explore each crevice with his fingers, as each had its' own story to tell. _How are you so perfect, my great Russian beast? _Was all he could think, over and over. _Why were you sent to me? _He kept catching himself drooling and hoped Heavy didn't notice.

"Vell, I can say Vizout a doubt, you are in peak condition, mien freund. Vhy, you seem to have never suffered an illness in your life!" Heavy was re-dressing himself after the physical.

"Da, I am very lucky. I tink is vhat help me" He searched for the English "eh, fight vinter as boy."

Medic understood well enough. "I vonce met a young boy in Russian Vinter," he started.

"I know."

"…Vhat..?" Maybe he was just trying to say he knew what the winters were like or something.

He smiled that same smile from the train station.

"You do not recognise me, Doktor?"

Medic was truly speechless. All this time, that boy, his sister, his mother, the mercy he'd showed, how cold he'd looked, even with all those layers – and he'd just spent the last two days lusting over him, entertaining these sick fantasies of his - a hand found its' way to his mouth.

The good doctor suddenly felt quite sick.


End file.
